


shoreless seas and stars uncounted

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Aziraphale arrives at Crowley's flat and finds something very unexpected lying in wait. Crowley is... reading?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 118





	shoreless seas and stars uncounted

**Author's Note:**

> There's a brief reference to both Aziraphale and Crowley being asexual; my versions often are, but it often doesn't hit the page clearly enough to label. This is one of the rare occasions when I decided it did. It is very vague, though! Sorry if this disappoints. I've written several where it's more prominent, but sometimes it's nice to have rep which isn't _about_ the rep, too.

Crowley doesn't hear the door to his flat opening, as he didn't hear the knocking on the door that just preceded it. He definitely hears Aziraphale's accusatory exclamation, though, and starts racking his brains immediately for whatever nefarious thing he's done recently. It's actually a short list; post-Armageddon, he's been enjoying a short holiday from almost everything nefarious, apart from the things which are also fun. It's difficult to tell what might set the angel off, sometimes.

" _You_ ," is what Aziraphale says, and all he seems capable of saying. A picnic basket hangs from one arm. His free hand is pointing, not at Crowley per se, but at the thing in his hand. 

The thing in his hand is a book.

"Ah," Crowley says.

A pause.

"I can explain," he offers.

Aziraphale's face indicates that Crowley had better explain, and fast. Unbothered by redundancy (and indeed fond of ticking all the boxes neatly, whenever possible), Aziraphale voices his problem aloud. "You said you didn't read!"

"The thing is -- "

"You can't slither out of this," Aziraphale says, before Crowley has attempted any such slithering. The picnic basket is firmly deposited on a side-table Crowley's almost sure he did not previously own, and then Aziraphale is poking through the dusty box beside Crowley's chair. " _Star Rangers_? I've never even heard of this book, Crowley!"

"That's because you don't read genre fiction," Crowley says, and then bites his tongue. "Not that I, uh, not that I read genre fiction. Obviously. I don't read."

A puff of dust and book-smell rises from the box as Aziraphale pulls out a handful of the books, tsking at the state of the ratty covers and the quality (or lack thereof) of the cheap paperbacks, from a very early print run. They look like they're about fifty years old, and like they have been dragged through several second-hand shops in succession. They have in fact had one owner from new, one Anthony J. Crowley, and they have been _loved_ into this state.

This last fact makes Aziraphale pause. "Crowley," he says, and his voice trembles a bit. "I think I see. It wasn't safe, was it? To love things? In case they might be taken away."

Crowley suddenly can't look at him. It's his own stupid fault for looking through the box _now_ , when he knew Aziraphale was due to come back (to come _home_ , and that's still a dizzying realisation -- that they are each at home with the other, that they are each home _for_ one another). He hadn't been able to resist reading just a little, and a little turned into a lot, and --

"I wouldn't have told anyone," Aziraphale says, putting a hand on Crowley's arm, " _I'd_ never have used it against you. You could've... We could've talked about books so much, even if I don't know what a star ranger is."

"You wouldn't like it. Too... bebop."

Another of those expressions Crowley can't bear crawls across Aziraphale's face. "Oh, dear. Did you think I would -- did you think I would mock your taste, dearest?"

"No," he says. He is terrible at lying to Aziraphale, and he can hear it in the awful silence. "It's not -- I didn't think you'd mock me, exactly. I just thought you'd, well... look down on it. Just..." He waves a hand at the awful covers, the swooning and unnecessarily half-naked women that have nothing whatsoever to do with the plots. " _Look_ at it. It's all... fantasy and science fiction, and so much of it has always been rather... well. You wouldn't like it."

"How do you know? I don't think I've ever tried. And I do try not to judge books by their covers, even if it's a dreadful cliché," Aziraphale says. After a moment he reaches out, and his warm hand cradles Crowley's jaw. They haven't touched much, and neither have any interest in anything sexual anyway, but the touch of Aziraphale's hand against bare skin is like lightning all through him, a forbidden intimacy he could only dream of a few weeks ago. 

"Angel," he croaks, and then clears his throat, embarrassed by the rush of emotion. Aziraphale just smiles and presses a kiss to Crowley's forehead, and that too is a pleasant shock, a fizz of sweetness better than any champagne.

And: "I can see we'll have to remedy this. Where shall I start, dearest?"

"Where...?"

Aziraphale nods, patting the topmost book of the pile ( _The Tombs of Atuan_ , by Ursula Le Guin). "Which should I start with?"

"You don't -- you won't like -- "

"My dear, I've rarely known your taste to be wrong. If you won't guide me..." Aziraphale's fingers sweep along the pile and he stops, unerringly, on Crowley's favourite of all (at least, his favourite of this particular box: the other boxes are something to be discussed later, he feels). Aziraphale turns the book over for a moment, examining the garish cover and taking in the blurb. His fingers smooth down the creased spine with a care that makes Crowley feel dizzy, even when only indirectly meant for him (meant for a thing he _loves_ ). "How about this?"

And suddenly there is a reading chair that Crowley _knows_ wasn't there before, and Aziraphale has also managed to miracle up a _fireplace_ , and a neat little coffee table, with one mug of hot cocoa (Aziraphale's) and one glass of excellent whiskey (Crowley's). The picnic basket is a little incongruous, but Aziraphale flips it open, and Crowley can see that it contains plenty of non-crumb-generating nibbles, perfect for an angel who likes to take care of his books.

"Shall we?" Aziraphale asks, and really, when has Crowley not given Aziraphale anything he asked for?

* * *

_"The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. In that realm a man may, perhaps, count himself fortunate to have wandered, but its very richness and strangeness tie the tongue of a traveller who would report them."  
\-- J.R.R. Tolkien, 'On Fairy Stories'_

**Author's Note:**

> So... a friend who was watching Good Omens with me and my wife noted, at the "I don't read" part, that she was not surprised to find me head-canoning books into Crowley's life anyway, since she knows that a) I RP as Crowley and b) I am a big reader (it does not take knowing me very well to know the latter, admittedly).
> 
> I cop to it. I have a head-canon for Crowley where he does read books, and this is more or less it. (I have another version where he loves detective fiction, and his favourite books include _Strong Poison_ , _Have His Carcase_ , and _Gaudy Night_ , for reasons you might be able to divine if you know your Dorothy L. Sayers.)


End file.
